


And Now We're Finally Home

by medelrey



Series: Finding Home [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, Dad!jon, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Future Fic, Gratuitous amounts of sex, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 21:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7286032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medelrey/pseuds/medelrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The Queen wishes that you would marry Sansa Stark."</p><p>Jon's mouth goes dry at the thought. It was one thing to have her in private; to have her all to himself, here in their childhood home, where secrets were kept between the thick walls and Sansa's moans were swallowed by his mouth. </p><p>"To Sansa?" </p><p>"Yes..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Now We're Finally Home

**Author's Note:**

> So here's the sequel to Follow, Please Follow Me Home, but it can be read alone. It's a definite alternate universe - and to be honest, I don't know much about politics in Westeros. But I do imagine that Dany's rule would be similar to those in medieval England (and that's what I know best). Thanks to the small army who read this as I went along and the entire final product. Hope you all enjoy - sound off in the comments - but as always, be gentle with criticisms!

When they return to Winterfell, it doesn't quite feel like home. Perhaps it is because the flayed men of House Bolton still hang from the castle walls or perhaps it has been too long since Jon has roamed its halls. It's a ghost of its former self, Jon thinks. How fitting, since that's how they all are. Even as Sansa hangs the Stark tapestries back in their rightful place, Jon still feels uneasy.

"What troubles you?" Sansa asks, watching out the window of her solar as men repair the broken stones in the courtyard. 

"What doesn't?" He mumbles, looking around the room. 

She shoots him a glare and Jon sighs. "It doesn't bother you? Being here after all that's happened?"

"You'd prefer to live somewhere else, then? After all we've been through to take Winterfell back?" 

"That's not what I said."

"This is my home, Jon. Our home. These are the rooms in which I was born. No one will take that from me."

"But how can you not look and see the ghosts of everyone we loved? Can you not hear Rickon laughing? Can you not hear Arya pouting because your mother wouldn't let her practice sword fighting?"

"I hear them every second," she replies hastily, "And don't you think I can remember every second of what I endured while I was here?" Sansa strides across the room, laying her hand across Jon's. He looks at her for a moment before he snatches it away. 

"I shall skip supper tonight. I've no appetite and I am tired." 

He doesn't miss the look of hurt that skits across Sansa's face but it doesn't stop him from leaving the room. He feels guilty that he's argued with her, with the one person in the world who hasn't done anything in the world besides give him encouragement and above all, love. But he is tired and he is drained; there’s only so much a man can take.

Jon eventually finds his way to his chambers, where it's totally silent except for the quiet crackle of the dwindling fire. He lies in his bed, tossing and turning for hours, still restless from the last few days. His room seems too hot or too empty and Jon feels as though he's being eaten alive by guilt from the argument with Sansa earlier. An exasperated sigh leaves his lips as he flops on his stomach, kicking the furs to the floor. Ghost whines as they fall atop him. 

Jon can't take it anymore - he hops out of bed, slipping on his breeches but foregoing a tunic as he stumbles through the dark toward Sansa's chambers. He curses as he sees Pod asleep outside her door. As soon as Jon is within hearing distance, the squire jolts awake, a little clumsy, struggling for his sword. "Wha-who goes-?"

"Easy, Pod," Jon says, "Just me."

A look of relief passes over Pod’s face as he pushes his sword back into its sheath. "Go get some sleep. I've just come to check up on Sansa."

"But Lady Brienne..."

"It's alright. I'll keep her safe." 

***

Jon doesn't bother knocking before he enters Sansa's room. It's dark, but not quite as dark as the castle halls. "Have you come to brood some more, Jon?" 

"No," He says, sitting down on the edge of her bed. 

"Come to yell at me, then?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"I'm sorry." Sansa turns to her opposite side to face him, staring blankly in the dark. "I'm sorry I was cross with you earlier. My anger was misplaced."

Sansa holds her arms out for him, taking Jon into her grasp. She holds him like that for what seems like hours, running her fingers across back, his shoulders, the small scars on his face. "How did you get in here, anyway?"

"Pod's not much of a guard in the middle of the night."

Sansa laughs, pressing her lips against Jon's forehead. "Then I'm just glad it was you." 

***

Jon looks at Sam as if he has suddenly sprouted two heads. "Sam, you can't be serious."

"I wouldn't lie to you, Jon. You know that."

"But how can it be true?"

"I can't tell you that. No one can. We only know that it is. We know that Lord Stark defeated the best swordsman in all of Westeros the year Robert's Rebellion ended in order to save his sister, and your mother, Lyanna. This has been validated and proven by hidden documents found in the crypts of Winterfell and in some of Maester Aemon’s belongings. After that it is a bit murky, I'll admit, but Eddard Stark rescued you after Lyanna died in childbirth in order to protect you from the new king. As you're aware, Robert set out to kill every last Targaryen left in Westeros. It was Lyanna's last wish that he save you and it was better for him for people to believe he brought home a bastard from the war than have you branded the last Targaryen heir in the mainlands."

"But I don't want the Iron Throne-"

"No one says you have to have it. But Queen Daenerys realizes she will never have true control of the North unless there is someone to govern it with the Stark name."

"I've never had the Stark name and I certainly don't now, Sam."

Sam looks torn for a moment, avoiding eye contact with Jon. 

"Spit it out, Sam."

"The Queen wishes that you would marry Sansa Stark."

Jon's mouth goes dry at the thought. It was one thing to have her in private; to have her all to himself, here in their childhood home, where their secrets were kept between the thick walls and Sansa's moans were swallowed by his mouth. 

"To Sansa?"

"Yes, and you would take the title Prince of the North and she would be Princess." 

"She is my sister, Sam!"

"Technically, she is your cousin..." Sam trails off, looking away from Jon's eyes once again. "Though I do understand your hesitation..."

"Do you?" The silence in the room cuts like a knife before Jon snaps. "And what will people say? That I married my sister? Haven't we had enough queens and kings who married their brothers and sisters?" 

"I'm sorry," Sam says quietly, "But the Queen urges you to consider it." 

"Consider or demands it?"

Sam smiles softly. "I think you know the answer to that." 

***

Sansa sits cradled between Jon's legs the next night, hands braced on his knees as he rests his chin on her shoulder. "We are to wed, then?" 

"Where did you hear that?"

"You have Sam, I have the Queen." Jon turns Sansa to face him, frowning. 

"The Queen has spoken to you?"

"I received a Raven, but yes, the effect was the same." 

"And this doesn't bother you?" 

"No, why would it, Jon? Who would I rather marry than you?"

"What will people say? Haven't you thought about what people will say?"

"Why should I give a damn what anyone has to say about me? Or you, for that matter? I stopped caring long ago." 

Jon sighs, "I could live without being called Lannister behind my back." 

"Who?" Sansa asks, tracing her thumb across his frown, "Who says such a thing? House Glover? Those who are still loyal to the Boltons?"

"I'm sure you've heard it, Sansa. People speak. They know what we do. It doesn't matter if you're no longer my sister; everyone says it."

"I'll not hear that said, do you understand? You are to be Prince of the North; you are the heir to Winterfell; you are respected. Do not ever listen to what people say. And in any matter, I hear the Queen is eager to pass reforms regarding speaking ill of royalty…" 

Jon smiles as he takes Sansa back into his arms, resting his forehead against hers. "There's no need for that. We will protect each other." 

"Always," she says, carding her fingers through Jon's dark and unruly curls. "We will protect each other always." 

***

The Dragon Queen wants the wedding to be a spectacular event; a huge celebration so large that no one could ever deny her rule or her power. But Sansa is adamant it should be a small affair, for the North has not yet recovered from the wars and it feels inauthentic to place the burden of a royal wedding on the plates of her subjects. 

"Lady Sansa," Daenerys says, "I admire the love you have for your people, but we must have a wedding befitting your status. It is important that no one can doubt Jon's legitimacy as heir and that the people may forget your wedding with my advisor, and your short tenure as Lady Bolton..."

Sansa stares at the Queen as she sits before her, counting to ten in her head as to not lose her temper. "As I am sure you can understand, Your Grace, I did what I had to do to survive. I have never chosen a husband for myself. I have been given and taken as a prize to hold. And as far as I am concerned, you shall never refer to me as Lady Bolton ever again."

"You dare speak to your Queen in this way?"

Sansa purses her lips, narrowing her eyes. "You are in my home, eating my food, planning my wedding. You are queen, but you do not rule here."

Daenerys considers Sansa for a moment, taking in the younger woman's appearance and tilting her head to gauge her response. She raises her glass and smirks, "Everyone was right, Lady Sansa; you are clever. You shall make a fine ruler.”

***

Baelish finds Sansa in a rare moment alone, where she’s away from Jon, Brienne, or even Pod. “I have lost, I see.”

He catches her off guard as he does, always silent and it makes Sansa uneasy. “Lost what, exactly? You have your glory, your gold, the entire Vale army at your back.”

“Ah, but it is not what I wanted most.”

Sansa wraps her cloak tighter around her shoulders, stepping back from Lord Petyr as he comes closer.

“And what do you want?”

“I thought you knew what I wanted long ago…”

Sansa isn’t stupid; she knows exactly what he wants; but she’ll play dumb. “And again, what else could you possibly want?”

“Sweet Sansa,” he says quietly, “I asked the new queen for your hand but I have been denied, it seems. I did think it a fair price for my part in your defeat of the Boltons.”

“I am not a prize to be won,” Sansa says flatly, “I am not to be given freely because you ask for it.”

Baelish steps forward and Sansa steps back, careful of her footing on the snow. “The North is thankful for your assistance, Lord Baelish. But the Queen has made her decision and we shall keep to her word.”

Petyr opens his mouth to reply, but Jon speaks first, coming from the side garden. Sansa breathes a quiet sigh of relief. “Yes, Lord Baelish, The North thanks you for your help in our battle,” Jon says, standing behind his newfound enemy. “We will gladly welcome you here for as long as you wish to stay. I am sure our new Queen has planned quite the celebration for Lady Sansa and I.”

“Ah, Jon. Have you been there long?"

"Long enough, my lord."

Petyr nods, looking back to Sansa. "I am afraid I cannot stay for your wedding, though I am sure it shall be everything you want it to be.”

Jon reaches for Sansa’s hand, smiling gloriously as she takes it. “Then you shall be sorely missed.”

Baelish takes his leave unceremoniously, and Sansa collapses into Jon’s arms as he kisses her forehead. “We have so many enemies,” Jon mumbles.

“Indeed,” she agrees, “We do.”

***

The wedding ceremony takes place two days later, in the Godswood, with only Sam and the Queen as witnesses. The celebration afterward, however, takes place at Winterfell with as many guests as the Queen desires, plus what seems like the whole of the north. Jon speaks his vows, shedding his brand new Targaryen cloak to place upon Sansa's shoulders. The white, silent snow falls upon their Northern crowns and across everyone's heavy winter clothes. 

Sansa lays her hand upon Jon's arm as they walk back to the castle, trailing behind their new queen but ahead of Sam. "There are hundreds awaiting us, if not thousands..." 

"So I've heard," Jon replies, "All to see their lady returned home."

"And not their prince?"

Jon laughs as he kisses the back of her hand as they enter the front gate of Winterfell to thundering applause. "No, I do believe it is all for you." 

***

"Do you know you are the sweetest thing I have ever tasted?" Jon murmurs, "Do you know what you taste like? Better than the best wine, sweeter than those lemoncakes you love so much. I could taste you every second of every day and never grow tired of it. Do you think I could?" He asks, pressing his lips to a sensitive spot beneath Sansa's ear. "I bet that I could. It's all I think about - the way you taste, how your skin blushes pink when you peak, how your hips twist under my hands and how your fingers feel in my hair. Would you let me? Would you let me sup at your cunt until you couldn't take it anymore? Could I taste you on my tongue for the rest of my days and hear the way you moan my name?" 

Sansa lets a whimper escape her lips, looking around quickly to see if anyone notices, "Jon..."

"What, Sweet girl?" He asks roughly, kissing his wife's cheek. "Am I driving you mad?" 

Sansa glares, narrowing her eyes, "There are hundreds of people here." 

"And you're the only one that can hear me."

"Regardless," she begins, but Jon cuts her off. 

"Are you thinking about it? Are you picturing my mouth between your legs and how I make you feel?" 

Jon feels Sansa shutter in his arms, placing another light kiss to her neck. "You know I am, but we mustn't. Not in front of everyone."

He laughs, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I'm not asking to in front of everyone." 

"People are starting to notice."

"Notice what? That a husband is speaking with his wife on their wedding day? How strange, indeed."

Sansa pushes Jon's shoulder playfully, biting back a smirk, "Enough. For now." 

Jon and Sansa somehow manage to avoid the bedding ceremony and there’s a part of Jon that thinks it’s the uneasy relationship people still see between him and Sansa. Daenerys raises her glass of Arbor Gold toward her new-found family. “To my nephew, the Prince” she declares, “And his lovely Northern wife.”

Everyone cheers as Jon leads Sansa from the great hall. They’re barely halfway to their chambers before Jon pulls his wife to the wall. “Didn’t think we’d ever be alone…” He kisses her hard, holding her face in his hands. Jon’s mouth molds with Sansa’s, teeth gently nipping at her bottom lip. It feels as though his hands are everywhere at once; running along the bodice of her gown, in her hair, spread across her back and downward until his palms are splayed across her arse. Jon slips his tongue between her lips, kissing her with all the passion and love he’s ever felt for her. Sansa moans into his mouth as he grinds his hips forward, completely forgetting they’re in a place where anyone could find them at any given moment.

Jon leaves a trail of wet kisses from her lips to her neck, licking a stripe with the very tip of his tongue before he lifts one of her legs to wrap around his hip. “I can’t wait anymore, Sansa. Please let me taste you. Let me make you come right here.” He hikes her skirt above her knee as he sucks a purple bloom into the left side of her neck (she’ll wear high-collared gowns for the next week, Jon knows.)

Sansa is conflicted - she wants him, Gods, does she want him. She’s sure there’s not a second that passes where she _doesn’t_ want him. Her body betrays her hesitation, though; she can feel how much she wants him leaking through her smallclothes, wetting her thighs and making her itch for friction. Jon kisses her again as she fists her fingers through his long hair, pulling it out of the small bun it’s tied in. “Yes, Jon, here, now…”

Jon makes a strangled noise from the back of his throat as he drops to his knees to worship at the sept that is Sansa Stark. He lets his eyes wonder up and down her long, beautiful legs, gaze locked on the delicate silk stockings tied with light blue ribbon at the tops of her thighs. “These are nice,” he says, running his fingers over the satiny fabric.

“Thank you,” Sansa breathes, “I made them.”

Jon places a light kiss just above the bow, his fingers inching their way up her body to hold her skirts at her small hip bones. He can smell her cunny from here - and it’s intoxicating. He mouths his way up her thighs, stopping when his lips rest just over her center. Sansa pants in response, rocking her hips as Jon’s damp breath washes over her. He takes his time unlacing her smallclothes before he slides them off her legs. Sansa makes a movement to untie her stockings, but Jon catches her hands. “No, those stay. Will you hold your gown for me, Sweetling?”

Jon spreads Sansa’s legs until she’s bared before him, his head between her thighs as he kneels to look at her more closely. He never has and never will see anything more beautiful. His tongue darts out to lick at her softly, slowly, wanting to drive her insane with want. His new wife mewls in response; her hips jutting forward to meet his warm mouth. Jon spreads his hand across her right thigh, bringing it to rest on his shoulder so he can get better access to her.

Sansa moans loudly as Jon licks from the top to the bottom of her cunt, the flat of his tongue covering the whole of her. He could do this for the rest of forever and she’d find something new to love every time, she thinks. Jon takes his time, swirling his tongue around her clit over and over until Sansa’s fingers scrape his scalp. Jon raises his hands to her arse once again, cupping her cheeks and pulling her to his mouth. He cants her hips in a striking rhythm, letting his tongue sink inside of her. She rides his face like it’s the last thing she’ll ever do - curling her leg around the back of his neck to keep him close.

Sweat beads on the back of her neck as Jon moves his tongue from inside her to her clit once more, using the very tip to trace circles around the swollen nub. Sansa’s legs shake with the effort of standing but Jon keeps her supported, watching her with dark eyes. Her cheeks blaze pink with exertion, her eyes half closed in pleasure. She looks beautiful; totally unaware of the way her way her body moves against her mouth or the way her lips swell after she bites them to keep quiet. If Jon was a godly man, this is what he’d worship.

Jon keeps Sansa’s rhythm going, certainly leaving nail impressions upon her perfect skin. He licks at her with abandon, running his tongue from side to side, up and down, letting her taste overwhelm his senses until she’s the only thing he knows. “Jon,” Sansa whines, curling her fingers into his hair so hard it hurts, “Please.”

Jon wraps his hands around the backs of her thighs, pulling her deeper into his tongue. “Fuck,” he mumbles, pressing his nose against her swollen nub. Sansa lets out a high whine, canting her hips into Jon’s face as she comes suddenly and without warning. Her world shakes, thighs quivering and hips jerking as she falls apart.

Jon catches every drop of her orgasm on his tongue, licking softly until her spasms turns to small jerks, to tiny quivers, until she finally stills. He ends with a kiss just above her center, setting her leg back down to the floor. When she finally opens her eyes, he’s still kneeling, half worshipping the woman who has his heart. “I’ll never grow tired of that.”

***

They enter their chambers in a tangle of limbs, furs hitting the floor and Jon's sword making an awful racket as it clatters to the wood beneath their feet. Sansa unlaces her new husband's jerkin with quick fingers, desperate to feel his skin against hers.

Jon can't free Sansa of her gown quickly enough, half willing to rip it, but takes a breath, remembering what had happened to her a few rooms over. He hesitates for a moment, stilling his eager hands for a moment. "Sansa..."

"What?" She asks, her teeth leaving their own mark upon his neck. "What ever could be the problem?"

He contemplates her face for a moment, shaking his head gently. "Nothing." Jon gently spins her around, lips pressed to the crook of her neck as he unties all the intricate knots down her back.

"Are you to be shy now?"

"No," Jon laughs, "Not right now."

When her dress hits the floor, Sansa turns around in his arms. "On the bed, then."

He studies her for a moment, cocking an eyebrow in slight confusion. Sansa shoves lightly at his chest, pushing him until his knees bend and he falls on top of the down mattress. She undresses him without hesitation; like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

Sansa sits up slightly, pulling her hair over one shoulder before she takes Jon into her hand. 

She's surprised by how soft it is, like velvet over steel and she squeals when she squeezes experimentally and Jon grunts in response. "Was that alright?"

"Yes," Jon says, licking his lips, "Although..."

"Yes?" She questions, running her thumb over the tip of his cock, marveling at the liquid that pools under her fingertip. Jon grabs at her wrist, forgetting his manners and licking her hand. She expects to be disgusted, but is pleasantly surprised at the warmth that pools in her belly at the sight. Even Jon's tongue against her hand sets her alight. 

"Like that," he says, "It's better when it's wet." 

Sansa wraps her small hand back around his cock, gripping a little tighter this time. Her fist slides easily now, working over him until Jon's hips buck into her hand and she feels more power than she's ever felt. Perhaps Cersei was right; perhaps a woman's power lies in sexuality. But then Sansa shakes that thought from her mind and realizes she'll never have to stoop so low. Sansa focuses her attention just under the head of his cock, watching with interest as Jon's chest flushes pink and his lips crack under the pressure of his teeth. "Does it feel good, Jon?"

"Yes," he mumbles, twisting his hips against the furs, "You have no idea what you're doing to me." 

"Can I..." Sansa hesitates, looking anywhere but Jon. 

"Can you what?"

"Can I use my mouth?"

Jon's cock pulses in her hand and he breathes hard through his nose. "You know I'd never tell you no." 

Sansa's never been terrible at anything; she always tries her best at every thing she does. And she's certain she won't be bad at this. She is, however, nervous. Her hands quiver as she kisses down Jon's chest, to his stomach, across the hard muscle that's carved there. He's beautiful, even with all the scars that have been left behind. She pauses as she reaches his hip, Jon's cock twitching in anticipation. "You really don't have to, Sansa. It's quite alright." 

"No," she says firmly. "I don't have to. But I want to." 

Jon nods, just waiting for Sansa to be ready. She's never done this before; never had a man's cock in her mouth; nor has she never wanted to. But now she can imagine nothing else in the world she wants more. 

When she takes him in her mouth, she's surprised by the taste. It's not entirely unpleasant, but a bit awkward at first. Sansa darts her tongue out, licking around the tip of his cock while she holds the base in her hand. She takes her time; licking up and down, slowly, trying to find her rhythm and what Jon likes. She presses the rough side of her tongue against the spot her thumb touched earlier and Jon bucks into her mouth, causing her to sputter and pull back. "Sorry," he says sheepishly. 

Sansa smiles and goes back to her work, running her tongue back up and down the length of him before she sucks the head between her lips. Jon moans her name and she slides him deeper in her mouth; breathing through her nose and moaning as his hands fist into her hair. She's usually so picky about her fiery red strands but this time, she doesn't care, she gladly welcomes the tugs and nods as he grips at her hair.

Sansa bobs her head, keeping her one hand wrapped around the part of his cock she can't fit in her mouth. She learns the faster she goes, the more Jon moans - and she loves every second. She wants more of it, all of it, all of him. Sansa wants to taste his seed on her tongue and know he's hers. Jon sputters gibberish as Sansa gains confidence, slackening her jaw and covering her teeth with her lips. It's all awfully unladylike as spit dribbles from the sides of her mouth and the noises she makes but then she's never felt more alive than in this moment. She pulls back when her jaw aches, wiping her mouth across the back of her hand and untangling Jon's fingers from her long hair. 

"Gods, Sansa..."

The girl only smiles as climbs up his body, straddling Jon's hips, feeling unashamed as she feels herself slick across his stomach. Jon catches Sansa’s face between his hands, kissing her hard, molding their lips together as one. “Shall we do it like this, Jon?”

She rocks her hips across him, moving until his cock lies pressed between them. “Wouldn’t you like to see me on top?”

There are no words that could convey how Jon truly feels about how much that he would enjoy seeing Sansa riding him, so he nods, knocking their teeth together as Sansa laughs. She’s extraordinarily beautiful like this; her thighs on either side of his hips, her long hair curling about her shoulders and cascading over her breasts. It’s a sight Jon will burn into the back of his mind for the rest of his life.

Jon places his hands over her hips, guiding her upward so she can position herself to slide down upon him. He grunts and drives himself upward to meet her as she sinks onto his cock. She gasps as he fills her; pressing into places she’d only heard whispers about. Sansa rocks slowly, grinding her hips back and forth over him, hands placed upon his chest for balance. The shyness that plagued her earlier in the evening disappears, replaced by a fiery passion that burns within the pit of her stomach. She watches Jon with hooded eyes; his irises dark and pink lips bringing a smile to her face as she uses her thighs to push herself up.

He watches her in return, his fingertips digging into her hips as he fights to keep still upon the bed. There will be time for that later, he knows. For now, he’ll enjoy the way her body moves; how it flows with rhythm she sets - he’ll focus on the small whines that fall from her lips and the way her cunt holds him like home. He’ll memorize every inch that is Sansa Stark and is his wife. He takes her hands in his, intertwining their fingers as Sansa glides up and down. The moment is so very intimate and he wishes it would never end.

 on holds tight to Sansa’s hips as he sits up, wrapping his arms around her back. She gasps at the new angle, her own fingers tangling into the curls at the nape of his neck as he pumps into her. “My sweet, _lovely_ girl. I’ll never let you leave this bed.”

“No?”

“Never. I’d stay inside you forever, Sansa.”

“Then do it,” Sansa replies, nipping his earlobe with her teeth. “Do you promise?”

“I promise,” Jon groans, resting his forehead upon her collarbone as he starts to lose his rhythm.

“Will you come, Jon? Will you fill me and make me yours?”

Jon grips her arse in his hands, chanting her name as he spills inside her, his hips jutting up in random spurts as he finishes. He feels horribly guilty for not making his wife peak before him, but he knows he’ll spend the rest of his life making up for it. “You’ll be the death of me.”

***

Jon spends four weeks with Sansa as her husband before he's called to King's Landing to work with his aunt in order to teach her the ways of the North. Even with her nephew in charge so far away, there's a strong amount of paranoia that follows Queen Daenerys everywhere she goes. 

"You absolutely have to go?" Sansa asks, holding the furs up to her chest to keep as modest as possible. 

"The Queen demands it."

"Your place is here, in the North, with me."

"I know it is," Jon smiles, lacing his breeches, "But Daenerys fears the North will become divided once again and will rise up if we do not act now."

"Who? Who dares rise against this queen? And against you, Jon, beloved Prince of the North?" Jon recognizes his wife's teasing, giving her a grin as he sits on the edge of their bed. He twirls a strand of her hair around his finger, admiring the softness that touches his skin.  

"No one yet, and I doubt anyone will. But the Queen fears the worst and wishes to remedy any issue before it can gain any ground." 

Sansa sighs and leans into Jon's touch. "How much longer shall we live in fear? Is the threat not over? What can she still have left to worry about?" 

"I honestly don't know. But I will return to you as soon as I can. You can always accompany me, you know."

Sansa smiles sadly before she takes Jon's hand between hers, forgetting the furs guarding her chest and placing her focus solely on her husband. "I made a vow to never to return to King's Landing and I intend on keeping that promise." 

"I understand," Jon murmurs, eyes flicking from Sansa's chest to her eyes, "Although I will miss you."

Sansa's eyes darken as she watches her husband's gaze fall ever lower. "And when do you ride?" 

"My horse is being readied at this moment..."

Sansa bursts into a fit of giggles as Jon attacks her with kisses, covering her body with his own. "But I do think they can wait..." 

***

Jon's gone for two moons in King's Landing before Sansa realizes why sudden queasiness overtakes her, why her appetite comes and goes – she’s been so overwhelmed with running Winterfell she hasn’t noticed the lack of her monthly bleeding. There can be no doubt she's with child. Half of her is overjoyed, while the other half feels uneasy at what Jon's reaction might be. He still, after all these months, feels the guilt that comes with marrying the woman he considered his sister all those years. In private, within the halls of their castle, he is the most kind and loving husband that Sansa had once dreamed of having. She never thought it would come true. 

She undresses herself the night she finds out, pulling her shift over her head and standing in front of the old mirror to inspect her body. There's nothing really different; not yet, anyway. If she stands to the side and looks too closely then maybe, just maybe there's a tiny bump.

 By the time Jon arrives back in Winterfell after two more moon's turns, there can be no denying she is carrying their child. She dresses in a bigger shift, a heavier gown with a loose waist to hide the ever more obvious bump. The snow falls heavily as she awaits her husband in the courtyard. Sansa is reminded of when she was small and her mother would wait on her father. She’d long given up hope that she would ever have the same future.

Jon dismounts from his horse and is in Sansa's arms in seconds. It's not lost on him that it echoes their first reunion at Castle Black only a year and a half prior. A moment he would never forget; a moment he would cherish forever. He picks her up, swinging her around in his arms, pressing his face into her neck and smelling the ever-familiar traces of lavender. "How I've missed you, Sweetling."

"And I you," Sansa replies, "I wish you never left." 

***

Sansa lets Jon undress her as he has so many times before. He begins with unbraiding her intricate hair, taking his time, like he'd nearly forgotten how she felt while he was away. When the red waves cascade down her back and across her shoulders, Jon gathers it in his hand and presses it to one side. "Softer than silk," he says, kissing the side of her neck. He moves to unlace her gown and Sansa holds her breath, not quite sure how to react. She's nervous, so nervous. Jon makes fast work of the laces and before she can even blink, her dress pools around her ankles and she's left in only her shift. 

She turns before he can look down upon her, but catches his eyes. Sansa rests her hands on each side of her small bump, "I wish I had thought of a better way to tell you...."

"Sansa...is that...are you?" 

Sansa can't help but smile as she nods, looking up to her husband. "You have given me a babe. A rightful heir. Your child."

Jon's silent for a moment, eyes wide with surprise. He sinks to his knees, settling his hands over Sansa's, but still avoiding looking at his wife's growing belly. "I never thought..never thought I'd have my own family. I made a vow to never father children. And yet, we are,"

Jon's never found crying to be the easiest thing to do. Not because it's not what a man should do, but because it doesn't ever seem strong enough to convey how he feels. But now he couldn't stop the tears, even if he tried. He lies with his head against her stomach, openly sobbing now. "You are so beautiful, my sweet girl. So very lovely. How could I ask for anything more than you?" 

Sansa feels her own tears wet her cheeks. "You will always have me. And we will have as many children as Winterfell will hold. They shall never know what we went through. Not when their father is Jon Targaryen." 

"Not with their mother as Sansa Stark will they know anything but happiness."

***

It's snowing heavily when Sam finds Jon in the courtyard of Winterfell, the latter cleaning up debris. "Jon," Sam says, out of breath, "It's Lady Sansa. "The babe is coming. Come quickly; it won't be long now!" 

Jon panics; he can hear her screams as soon as he enters the castle. What would he do if Sansa left him now? She was the answer to every single one of his dreams - what would he ever do without her? Her ladies and the septa try to keep him from her rooms, but he’s too determined. He will see his first child born and his wife safe. Sansa wails as he busts through the door, her beautiful red hair matted with sweat and her fingers gripping the linen of the bed so tightly Jon can see her knuckles have turned white.

“Jon,” Sansa murmurs, holding out her hand. “It hurts, dear Gods, it hurts.”

“I know,” he replies, sitting next to her. “But you can do it.” He strokes her neck gently, whispering sweet things in her ear as Sansa’s cries fill through the room.

Sansa holds his hand for dear life as she brings their first child into the world, a little baby boy. “Robb,” Sansa says, stroking the cherubic cheek of their son. “Shall we call him Robb?”

“Yes,” Jon agrees, “A fine name for our boy.”

***

"I have missed you too much, Sansa," Jon says, lifting her off the floor and gently placing her on the bed. He’s just returned from the many trips he takes to the capital, gone far too long for either one of their liking. "Tell me, have you heard those awful rumors your ladies gossip about? The gossip that a husband tastes his wife differently when she's with child...."

"I may or may not have," she responses coyly, "But shall we find out on our own?" Sansa frees her foot from her shift, running her toes along his jerkin. He catches it in his wrist, leaning down and kissing the underside of her foot. She wiggles away from his grasp and wraps her leg around his neck to pull him down. "I don't care what people say. But I want it. I want your mouth on my cunt and I want you to make me come." 

Jon stops for a moment; for he is so hard he can't see straight. He loves when Sansa is like this; wild and desperate for him. "Jon," she calls, coquettishly pulling up the hem of her night shift to uncover what Jon most wants. She spreads her legs just a little wider, entranced by the way her husband stares at her. "Now show me how badly you want my cunt, Jon."

As he always does, Jon brings her to peak as many times as she can handle before she pushes his head from between her legs. He stares at her for a moment; his beautiful wife, still as pure as the day she was brought into the world. She's older now; her red hair darker than it was before Robb and Ned came, her hips ever slightly wider after the birth of their two sons. Now she lies before him, belly slightly swollen with their third, but still the most perfect creature Jon has ever set his eyes on.

"I want you to fuck me like the wolves we are, Jon."

Jon's breath hitches in his throat and he swallows hard; running his hands up and down her calves. His wife never fails to catch him by surprise; even though he should expect it by now. She is fiery when she's pregnant, far more so than usual. And Jon loves every moment of it.

He catches her by the thighs, yanking her down the bed until she's tucked beneath him. Jon kisses her hard before he flips her to her hands and knees, wrapping one hand around her hip and using his other to guide himself inside her. She's warm and wet and fits him like a glove; her body made for his like a puzzle piece. He wonders how he ever went without her for so long; how he could ever go without her now. Sansa arches her back as Jon sinks fully into her body, filling her, completing her.

Sansa whimpers as the delicious burn washes over her body. Jon hears her curse under her breath and his hips snap in response, sending her face first into the pillows to muffle her moans. Jon moves carefully, as he always does, treating her like the fragile precious thing he considers her to be. "Harder, Jon; like you mean it."

Jon smirks as he leans over her, molding the front of his body against Sansa's back, wrapping her pretty long hair in a knot around his wrist. "Aye? Like I mean it?" He punctuates his words with his thrusts, the front of his thighs slamming into her arse as the cacophony of their lovemaking echoes around the room. "Don't I always fuck you like I mean it? Don't I always make you peak, sweet girl? Don't I always make you feel good?"

When she doesn't answer, Jon gives her hair a small tug, brushing his teeth against the thin skin of her neck. "Tell me, Sansa. Don't I always give you what you want?"

"Yes," she moans, pushing herself up and Jon back onto his knees. Sansa grinds harshly down onto his cock, reaching for purchase in Jon's hair. "Yes."

Jon snakes a hand down the front of Sansa's body, his fingertips immediately finding the spot that makes Sansa's toes curl and eyes fall closed. "Then come for me, Sansa."

And she does; never failing to follow her husband's command.

***

Their third son comes screeching into the world on a summer day, one that's hot, even for the North. Jon holds his son's hands as they wait outside Sansa's chambers, four-year-old Robb's eyes wide with fear. "Why is Mother screaming, Father? Will she be alright?"

Ned whines as he holds tight to Jon's tunic, barely two. "She'll be fine, Robb. Your mother is strong. And soon, you'll have a new brother or sister."

"I hope it's a girl," Robb says, "I've already got a brother."

"And you'll love whatever it is," Jon replies, pushing his son's curls out of his face and soothing Ned's cries. "We will find out soon enough."

Sam exits Sansa's chambers just as Jon looks up, a smile upon his face. "You have another son, Jon."

"Will we call him Bran, Father? Like Mother wanted?" Robb asks, wandering slowly into Sansa's chambers as Jon picks up little Ned. 

"I think so, Robb. What do you think of that?" 

"Well, I think it is a name." 

Sansa laughs as she hears her eldest son's opinion. "You are not wrong." 

***

It's another three years before Sansa is with child again; so long they both wonder if they'll ever have another. Ever curious, Ned wanders into his father's solar as Sansa retires shortly before she's due. "Do you think it'll be another boy?"

"I have no idea. What do you want it to be?" Jon asks, lifting his five-year-old onto his knee.

"A girl, I think. I have two brothers already."

"That's what your brother said when Bran was born."

"Really?"

"Almost the exact same thing." Jon tweaks Ned's nose and kisses the top of his head.

"I think-" Ned begins, but before he can finish, Sam rushes into the room.

"Jon, you must come right now; there is trouble."

Jon's never run so fast, pushing people aside as he rushes to be with his wife. When he reaches her chambers, she is sickly pale, bathed in sweat and tears leaking from her eyes. "I can't do this, Jon. I won't make it. The babe won't come."

"You have to, Sansa. Please. For me." He looks at the maester expectantly.

"Sam, you've got to do something."

"It's stuck, Jon, it needs to be turned." Jon blanches as Sansa screams, her fingernails digging into his arm.

"Sansa, look at me. I'm right here. You can do this."

She nods, biting back another scream. "You must stay with me."

"Always," he says, kissing her forehead. "Always."

It's another four hours before the babe enters the world; a tiny little girl with matted black hair and a strong set of lungs. Jon takes her immediately, holding the head carefully as he had learned over the years. Sansa gives another yelp, hands fisting into the linen on the bed. "I think there's another, Sansa. You have to keep pushing."

The second babe comes into the world easier this time, a spitting image of the first. "We have two daughters, Sansa; look at how beautiful they are. Just like you."

Sansa nods weakly, reaching out her arms for the infant. "They are perfect."

"And what shall we call them?"

"The first one shall be Arya for how stubborn she was. The second shall be Lyanna."

"Aye," Jon smiles, "Those are good names."

***

Jon and Sansa stand on the catwalk above Winterfell's courtyards, watching their five eldest children mess around in the mud. Sansa holds their youngest, barely a month old in her arms. 

"Keep your shield up, Bran!" Robb yells, "Or I'll ring your head like a bell." 

The youngest son sighs in annoyance as he moves back into position with his wooden sword and shield. "It's not fair," he pouts, "I'll never be as good as you or Ned." 

"You'll learn," Ned replies, "But you'd learn faster if you had a better teacher."

"Father says I'm the best in all of the North, if not in the Seven Kingdoms!" Robb jests, puffing out his chest to deflect his brother’s playful insult.

"Father lies to make you feel better, Robb." 

Robb groans and hits Sam a little too hard, knocking him into the mud. It scares the younger boy more than it does hurt him, but he cries nonetheless. "You've done it now, Robb. Now we'll both be in trouble!"

"Boys!" Sansa yells, "Help your brother up. Be nicer. And Ned, don't egg your brother on. You'll all make fine swordsmen one day." 

Sansa glances at Jon, closing her eyes in annoyance. "They'll all have to be bathed before supper."

"So will Lyanna and Arya, I've spent the morning with them in the river. You'd not recognize them with all the mud." 

Sansa cradles the babe under her chin and sighs, "Promise me you'll stay clean, little Alys. Promise me you didn't inherit your father's or sibling's love for dirt." Jon laughs, clapping as Lyanna shows Arya how to set up her bow, sending the arrow flying directly into the bullseye. 

Though Jon loves all his children, he, too, wishes Alys will end up more like Sansa. Their five eldest children have inherited every trait of the North; rugged, talented, built with pride and dark hair and a penchant for mischief. But he longs for a babe that has the Tully red hair and bright blue eyes, kissed by the fire that is Sansa Stark. He wonders if Alys will be their last; for the twin's birth was hard on Sansa's small body. Truthfully Jon wasn't sure if she was going to make it with Alys. It’d taken seven years to have their newest, and he'd give Sansa as many babes as she wanted, but only if there could be a guarantee his beloved wife survived. 

Jon places his arm around Sansa, watching their children run wild through the muck of the early spring rains. "We received a Raven from King's Landing this morning." 

Sansa drops her gaze from her children to rise to her husband. "I suspected one would be arriving shortly. Fourteen years in relative peace was too much to ask for. What did it say?" 

"The Queen says that one day, Robb shall sit upon the Iron Throne. She decrees that over the next weeks, our children will be given titles and live where they are sent so their subjects may love them as they grow." 

"But we don't want the throne, Jon, we never did."

"I know that, Sans, I do. But you are my lawful Stark wife and I am the Targaryen heir; two houses joined together in order to create a stable Westeros. One day there will be others that come after us and since the Queen has never married and we gave up the right to the throne, the line falls to Robb."

"No, Jon, I won't let her take him, especially not to the capital."

"I don't like it either, but just two months ago, she scorched a nest of rebels in the South and she's been Queen for years now. She wants us to place our children with titles of my line and yours so every kingdom is secure. The three eldest will be titled immediately while the three youngest will remain with us. Robb will be fit to inherit the crown from her, and his children from him; we have no other choice."

"And where shall I send them, Jon? Here at least, I know they are protected. Don't you recall what happened when Father let us all go on our own? Shall we send them off and pretend all those years we suffered never happened? Didn’t we promise to always protect each other?"

"I am not Father," Jon growls, growing frustrated, "And these are different times. We must do as the Queen says. We have enjoyed more peace during her reign than anyone can hardly remember. Do you not agree? And have we not raised our eldest son as a prince?" 

"Jon," Sansa sighs, "Of course we have. But how can I let him go?" 

Jon sighs and massages Sansa's shoulder with his fingers. "Robb shall go south, to Kings Landing, and take the title Crown Prince of the North and of the Seven Kingdoms and proceed on my behalf. Ned will travel to the Eyrie, to your cousin's home. He will been granted the title Lord of the Vale after Robin's death. And Bran will go to the Riverlands, more than likely."

"You want Robb to take on the role of heir-apparent to all of the Seven Kingdoms? He's barely ten and four!"

"We have no choice. We both knew this day would come. They all may travel home as they please until they turn sixteen." Sansa blinks back tears, but knows what her husband says is the truth. "And if we have more sons in the future, more titles will be given on their twelfth birthdays. The Queen, or if Robb rules by then, will decide."

Sansa nods solemnly, holding the baby in her arms just a little bit tighter. "Our girls will stay with us, Jon. Please. They must. At least until they are old enough.”

Jon presses a kiss to his wife's temple. "Our daughters will never leave our sight. I promise you that. I made a promise to protect you and I've never once forgotten it. You said you'd never leave Winterfell and I will never make you break that promise." 

Sansa sniffs a little, hoisting their smallest babe further on to her hip. "And their hands in marriage will not be bartered like they're some object to be given as if they're presents."

"No," Jon says, placing his hand over his youngest daughter's head and placing a kiss on Sansa's forehead. "No one till touch them. No one will touch you. I will protect you always." 

And he will. For the fourteen years Sansa has been his wife, she’s never known such safety.

 

**Author's Note:**

> At the end, Robb is 14, Ned is 12, Bran is 10, and the twins are 7. Thanks to everyone who recommended names; I couldn't decide on just one so they all ended up in the story! You can find me on tumblr @ mattysigh.tumblr.com


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